A Coin for the Hangman

by Spurrier, Ralph

  Minutes went by.

  Then the sound of the shop door opening and the bell reverberating through the floor of his room and the panic quickly evaporated. Peering through the chink in the curtain, Henry watched as the soldier walked back down the street towards the station, his open overcoat flapping behind him. On the stairs outside his room he heard the light step of his mother’s bare feet as she climbed to her room and in the far distance, farther and farther in the mistier night, sounded the whistle of a train entering Deepdene Cut.

  1946

  Henry & Mavis

  Henry heard the first splashes of rain hitting the bedroom window shortly after seven the next morning. During the night the wind had turned to a westerly direction and had picked up sufficiently to rattle the catches on the sash window. Getting out of bed and half drawing the curtains, he looked out on a roofscape that had turned from the warm glow of the previous day to a glistening, grey-slate sheet. In the distance he could make out the darker shades of grey against the hills that were visible, with heavier pulses of rain moving towards the town. The street below was empty of people – it was too early for the first Sunday service and the pavement weaved like a black glistening snake down towards the town centre. He stood staring at the colourless scene for a while, lost in thoughts that shuttled back and forth. He hadn’t really thought of his father for some months and now he suddenly realized, with a shock, that his memory of him was becoming hazier. The few photos that his mother kept in an album were taken before Henry was born. Somehow, the fading memory was slowly washing away. He turned back into the bedroom and looked into the mirror above the mantelpiece. There was nothing in the reflection that he could remotely connect with his father. He touched the roll of fat under his chin, pushing the unshaven jowl between thumb and forefinger to try and press it back into his neck. Even then, this slightly slimmer face refused to give up any glimmer of his father’s image. His hand touched his cheek, nose and hair-line, roaming over the surface of his face. He suddenly recalled the film he had seen a few months before, The Beast With Five Fingers. Despite his unease, he smiled at the vision of his disembodied hand crawling across his face.

  Getting dressed and going downstairs he could hear no movement from his mother’s room. He decided to roll out the shop’s outdoor blinds so that the summer’s dust and grime could be washed away in the rain that was now steadily falling from the sodden sky. Slipping on an old mac and boots, Henry picked out the step-ladder from the understair cupboard, walked into the shop and unlocked the front door. Outside, the pavements which had been dry for weeks were giving off the smell of warm, wet tarmac. There were two shop blinds, one over each window, separated by the doorway. It was while he was half-way up the step-ladder, unhitching the rope of the second blind from its cleat, that he saw a familiar figure coming towards him down the hill. Mr Martin, “mad Saul” as his mother called him, was shuffling along the pavement. He came to a stop by the foot of Henry’s ladder. Henry looked down on a balding head with a few straggling hairs hanging wet and loose from just above the ears. A fur coat which, when new, would have been a beautiful russet gold, was now wet and streaked with dirt. It hung loosely over Saul’s drooping shoulders, the empty arms tied across his chest. The buttons were undone and Henry could see that underneath Saul was bare-chested. His trouser belt was an old blue and yellow tie and on his feet were a pair of old, open-toed sandals, soaked to a dark brown.

  “Have you seen my wife?” Saul addressed Henry’s feet on the ladder.

  Henry stepped down the rungs and onto the pavement. “I’m sorry, Mr Martin, I haven’t seen her today.”

  It was a response that nearly everyone in the town now gave to Saul whenever they were stopped. Strangers would ignore him and those who knew him would cross the road to avoid him, dreading being asked the same question, a never-ending reminder of the nightmare of the war years. Even those who tried to explain what had happened now gave simple answers, hoping he would just move on.

  Henry watched, his hand steadying the ladder, as Saul nodded and hesitated. Saul’s eyes were unfocused, staring at Henry’s chest rather than at his face.

  “I’ve looked everywhere,” Saul’s voice quivered as if he was about to burst into tears. “Where do you think she’s gone?”

  Henry put out a hand and touched the matted wet fur of the coat draped over Saul’s shoulder.

  “Perhaps she’s waiting at home, Mr Martin. I don’t think she would be out for long in this weather.” The lie fluttered like a black crow between them.

  Saul turned without reply, as he always did, and continued down the street. Henry watched the retreating back, the fur coat darkening under the falling rain, and wondered what it was that stopped Saul from realizing the truth. Perhaps it was just like that phrase in Wells’ book he had read last night: the writer is convinced that there is no way out or round or through the impasse. It is the end.

  Henry finished the job of extending the blinds and the falling rain was now beginning to run the collected grime off the edges in a steady trickle of dirty water. He folded the ladder and went back inside the shop. Taking off his boots on the inner mat and hanging his mac on the hall stand, he headed towards the back room where he could hear his mother preparing breakfast.

  “Hello, dear. Where’ve you been? I called up the stairs but didn’t hear you.” Mavis was tipping some oats into a saucepan of milk and water. “Porridge OK today?”

  “Yes, thanks.” Henry returned the ladder into the cupboard under the stairs and backed out, ducking his head. “I thought it would be a good idea to put the outside blinds down. Give them a wash in the rain.” He shut the cupboard door and came into the kitchen. “Met Mr Martin coming down the road.”

  Mavis sprinkled salt into the porridge with her fingers and looked across at Henry. “Did he say anything to you?”

  “The usual.” Henry rubbed his head on a towel. “Seen my wife?”

  Mavis clucked. “He’s such a poor man. It’s heart-breaking, it really is.”

  Henry draped the towel on the clothes horse that hung over the stove and pulled out a chair from under the table before sitting down. “How did you enjoy yesterday evening?”

  Mavis continued to stir the porridge but didn’t look up. “Yes, it was good. The film was lovely. A real weepy.” She put two bowls on the draining board and ladled out the porridge in equal amounts before filling the saucepan with water from the tap to soak. “What did you do?” She brought over the two steaming bowls and placed them on the table. Henry unclipped the Kilner jar and spooned some jam onto the porridge.

  “Me? Oh, I listened to the radio for a while and then took a walk along the canal down to Avoncliff. Got the train back.” He sipped at the hot oats.

  Mavis stirred her porridge and looked at Henry. “I’ve invited George to dinner today.” She blurted out. “He’s going back to barracks tomorrow and I thought it was the least I could do after he bought the fish and chips yesterday and paid for the cinema.” She looked warily at Henry, waiting for a response. “He said he’d bring along some pork he could lay his hands on. I didn’t ask from where!” Mavis laughed and continued. “We haven’t had pork for ages. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

  Henry hesitated a moment before nodding his head. His mother’s announcement came out in a rush as if she had been rehearsing it since last night. “Yes, that’s OK.” He added, “Going back to barracks? Is he still in the army then?”

  Mavis relaxed a little, grateful to have got the details of George’s dinner invite out of the way. “Oh, he says he’s been on special duties at some prison somewhere called…” Mavis waved her spoon in mid-air, “…Baden something. Er, wait a minute. He did tell me the name last night. Baden…” she looked distractedly out the kitchen window as if expecting to see the answer in the garden, “…Endorf. That’s it. Baden Endorf.” She took a mouthful of porridge before adding: “Secret work, he says, but it’s now finished and he’s just tidying up before being officially de
mobbed.”

  Henry raised an eyebrow but his mother, now concentrating on finishing her bowl, failed to notice the look of scepticism on his face.

  After breakfast Mavis changed into her Sunday dress and set off for the 10 o’clock service at the Catholic church. Henry had stopped going with her since he was about sixteen and although she had nagged him at first, eventually she felt it best just to let him be. She closed and locked the shop door behind her and hovered in the doorway beneath the awning while she struggled to put up an umbrella. Her mind raced back to the night before when she last stood in the doorway with George close up against her. The emotion of the film had subtly fed her imagination and she saw George as the doctor in the film, Alec Harvey, leaving for a country far away. She had been surprised by her own feelings towards the soldier, not only by the strength of them but also by how quickly she had fallen. As she walked down the road towards the church, with the rain pattering on the black canvas of the umbrella, she thought that perhaps, just perhaps, there could be a different kind of life for her and that she wasn’t necessarily tied to the shop for ever more. All those war years battling with the business and bringing up Henry single-handed had dulled her appetite for excitement and now, all of a sudden and completely out of the blue, she saw that things could be different. Very different.

  Mavis arrived at the church just as the priest, preceded by two altar boys, was coming out of the sacristy. The leading altar boy sounded the sacristy bell to alert the congregation and all stood. Quickly flapping the drops of rain from her umbrella, she slipped into the pew nearest the door and stood until the priest arrived at the altar. Following the rest of congregation, she kneeled on the rubber-lined board that was fixed to the pew in front. Taking out the well-worn missal from her handbag, she checked the hymn board which gave details of the service. Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost. Opening the pages with the ribbon marker, she began to read the first lines of the service to herself. But she found it difficult to concentrate, her thoughts slipping back to the night before and the moments she and George had shared in the doorway of the shop. The priest, robed in green, placed the chalice on the altar and turned to the congregation, opened his arms and intoned: “Introibo ad altare Dei, ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam.”.”

  The memory of George’s lips on hers, his tongue insistently pressing between her lips and slipping across her teeth…

  Beginning the Confiteor the priest lowered his head and turned to face the altar. Mavis’s bowed head hid the flush of excitement that she felt rise from her chest.

  “…quia peccátvi nimis cogitatióne, verbo et opera…”

  … his hand gently pressing against her side, so near to her breast that she could imagine the tips of his fingers would only need to move just an inch or two more to touch the rousing nipple under her dress…

  “…Ideo precor beátam Maríam semper Virginem…

  … and that forgotten pleasure of the delicate, insistent pressure of a man against her thigh.

  Mavis went through the motions of the Mass, kneeling and standing, saying the words in response. During the sermon which seemed to go on longer than usual, she smoothed her skirt over her thighs and wondered, for the first time in years, if perhaps they were running to fat. When the priest gave the final dismissal she stood up, ready to make a quick exit from the church. Tapping the handle of her umbrella impatiently with her fingernails, she waited for the priest to leave the altar and walk back to the sacristy. She looked around the congregation and wondered if any of them had seen her last night at the cinema or walking along the road with George. She felt a sudden pang of unease that the gossips were already beginning to talk about her.

  The door of the sacristy closed behind the priest and Mavis stepped out from the pew, genuflected and headed for the door. It was still raining and, as she made her way back to the shop, she had to skip over the puddles that were collecting on the pavement. George had said he would be round at about noon and it was already gone eleven. She hoped that Henry had peeled the potatoes as she had asked and not hidden himself away in his room with books. When she was tidying the kitchen that morning she had come across the paper-wrapped fish and chips in the compost bin and they looked virtually untouched. She meant to tackle Henry about it but felt on difficult ground with George now coming to dinner. The last thing she wanted was a glum Henry sitting across the table putting him off.

  “I’m back,” Mavis called out as she went through from the shop. There was no reply. Going into the kitchen she saw a saucepan on the unlit hob and picked up the lid. Peeled and quartered potatoes covered by water. Good. Mavis went to the foot of the stairs. “Did you salt the water?” She called up. No reply.

  Slightly aggravated, Mavis climbed the stairs and knocked on Henry’s door. She could hear no sounds coming from inside and, knocking once again, she slowly opened the door. The room was empty. His bed was made although there was the outline shape of a body on the quilt. The curtains were drawn open and on the table by his bedside sat the two books he had bought yesterday. The H.G. Wells book sat opened out and upside down as if Henry had just been reading it and put it to one side for a moment so as not to lose his place. Mavis went over to the window and looked out. Apart from a couple, nestled under one umbrella and straggling back up the hill, the street was empty. She went back to the landing.

  “Henry!” Her voice echoed through the house but she could hear no movement anywhere.

  “Damn and blast!” she mumbled to herself as went down the stairs once more. Why couldn’t he just be there? Why did he have to make things difficult? The excitement at the thought of George arriving for dinner was quickly dissipating and now, for the first time in her life, she felt genuinely annoyed with Henry. Where could he be?

  1946

  Henry & Victor

  At the moment his mother was looking anxiously for him out of the bedroom window, Henry was down on the town bridge leaning over the parapet watching the rain puddle the surface of the water. The ducks and moorhens that normally drifted back and forth under the spans were fewer than normal and now there was just a solitary bird pecking at the grass and the rushes that lined the banks. Just to his right was the strange abutment that hung out from the bridge and which had been used, so Henry was told at school, as an overnight lock-up prison for the town’s trouble-makers. Two small casement windows looked out over the river and the entrance door, now jammed permanently shut with solid and rusty locks, was a dark wood, studded with nails. He tried to imagine what it would be like to be incarcerated in this small stone room barely two paces in width and with the world passing by, heard but unseen.

  He hadn’t intended to come down to the town that morning but the anxiety that had been growing since yesterday evening made him feel restless. Why did she want to upset what they had? They had worked through the difficult war years and even though things weren’t that much easier now, it couldn’t be too much longer before rationing was lifted and life could get back to normal. He flicked a loose piece of pointing from the parapet and followed its trajectory to the river below where it pocked the surface. A moorhen that had emerged from the reeds nearby did an about-turn and scuttled back into safety.

  “Hello again, Henry. Fancy meeting up with you twice in a weekend! What you doing down here in this rain, boy? Haven’t you got a home to go to?” Mr Watson, the cinema manager, had come up unnoticed on Henry’s shoulder. His fawn mackintosh was damp, streaked at the shoulders, and a drip of rain slipped from the rim of his brown homburg.

  “Oh hello, Mr Watson. I was just out for a walk while Mum went to church. Is that where you’ve come from? I suppose she could be home by now.”

  The cinema manager pursed his lips in mock horror. “Chapel, boy, chapel. Not church. Oh no, not church. Couldn’t do with all that bending the knee and fancy words. A few simple prayers, a good Moody and Sankey to lift the spirits and then out the door to the pub for a bit more spirit.” He laughed. “Minister organizes the service so we
finish just before noon. Good man!” He took a longer look at Henry. “Looking a bit damp there, boy. I’m just off to the New Bear,” he nodded towards Silver Street. “Why don’t you join me for a quick one before you go home?”

  Henry was just about to say his mother would be wondering where he was when the cinema manager added, “I knew your father quite well, you know. Good man. It was a great shame he didn’t live to an old age.”

  Henry suddenly felt as if a comforting hand had been placed on his shoulder. He looked at Mr Watson in a new light. “That’s very kind of you, Mr Watson.” He hesitated for a second. “Yes, OK, yes, that would be good.”

  “And it’s Victor, Henry. Victor.” He smiled and nodded towards the pub. “Let’s get cracking then before we get really soaked.”

  “Afternoon, Vic. Usual?” The barman picked off a silver tankard from behind the bar and put it under the pump.

  “Yes, Harry, a pint of mild. And one for my friend here.” Victor took off his hat and mac and hooked them over the coat stand by the door. Henry followed suit.

  “Hello, Henry, haven’t seen you in here before. Your mother know you’re out?” He winked at Victor. “Starting him on a dissolute life, eh?” The barman, who Henry recognized as a regular visitor to the shop, pulled on the beer pump and laughed.

  “Now, Harry, don’t start pulling the boy’s leg. Here you go, Henry.” Victor picked up the two pints and handed the straight glass to Henry. “Let’s nip round to the snug.” He nodded to a small, glass-panelled door in the middle of the bar and pushed through the entrance to a separate room.

  The snug divided the public and saloon bars and had one small table, two chairs and a couple of high stools against the bar. The delicately patterned window proclaiming Ushers of Trowbridge was streaked with rain and outside Henry could hear the swish of tyres as a car climbed the hill and out of the town. The door to the pub opened again and someone came in. From the snug no other drinkers were visible – just a small section of the bar directly in front.